Second Best Archer in the Forest: Generous Collector
Comedy short: A bridge to the village's heart
“Yield.”
Swords clanged.
“Yield I said!” Dale hollered, bracing himself against the wooden rail of a bridge.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the squire said, lowering his weapon. “I couldn’t hear you over your yelping.”
“I wasn’t yelping, you coward. I noticed you were winded and didn’t want you keeling over into the rushing waters. Force me to explain why my squire is floating downstream… again.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” the squire said. He knelt at the edge of the bridge, scooped some water into a small bucket, and delivered Dale’s drinking ladle.
Dale took a sip. “It’s a bit wet. So you’re lucky I’m parched.”
“Right. It smelt wet. Shall I send a letter to the King? Perhaps he can have the river repaired?”
“Eh, not worth the trouble. These ungrateful villagers wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.”
“Speaking of. You know how Robin Hood is always pulling off these amazing feats of generosity, embarrassing you in the process and putting you further and further in the backs of people’s minds?”
Dale’s face soured. “Vaguely.”
“I was thinking.”
“I thought I smelt burning tallow,” Dale cut in.
“What if you came up with your own memorable act of generosity? Remind the people that Robin’s not the only one with a heart in this town.”
The squire scooped a handful of water to drink.
Dale’s eye lit up. “Hmm. That’s not bad, squire. Let me ask you, what’s the one thing villagers use every day?”
“Bum straw?”
“The bridge, you clodpoll.”
“Right. What about it?” the squire said.
“We start charging people to cross.”
“And that helps them how?”
“Well, we’ll collect a modest toll. Call it a donation. A few coppers for passage. Less, of course, a modest administrative fee.”
“Then…”
“We donate a portion of the collection.”
“So you’ll charge everyone for something that was free?”
“Only briefly.”
“And then give some of their money to someone else?”
Dale let out a breath. “This is like having a conversation with an oyster. YES.”
The squire leaned against the railing for a moment. “Couldn’t you just give your own money to the poor?”
“Well then, it wouldn’t be a community effort, would it?”
*****
The next morning the squire rolled a large oak barrel onto the bridge.
Dale stood atop an overturned onion crate. “Donations for the poor!”
“For the poor,” the squire echoed.
“Help your brethren in their hour of need!” Dale called.
“Hour of need,” the squire repeated.
An old man approached and dropped two copper coins into the barrel. “Bless you two and your efforts,” he said.
Dale peered inside the barrel. “Two coppers? Cheap coot.”
“Pardon?” the old man said.
The squire helped him along. “You ought to scoot.”
He scooted away.
A woman in a threadbare shawl approached next and dropped in a single coin.
“Bold of you,” Dale said.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing. Bless you. Move along.”
A priest was next, his robe dragging in the mud. He raised a hand over the barrel and mumbled something in another language, then walked on.
“Excuse me,” Dale said. “Holy man. Where’s the coin?”
“I prayed for your endeavors. It’s all I have, my son.”
“Son? If you were my father, you’d have a coin pouch as thick as a toad. Move along.”
A man on crutches came next.
Dale turned to the squire. “Oh dear, Lord. Is there anyone not maimed or destitute in this entire village? It’s like they don’t even try to become wealthy.”
*****
That night, by lantern light, the squire counted the haul. “Six coppers. One blessing. One verbal debt. And a fish.” He smelled it. “Dried halibut, I believe.”
Dale let out a long sigh. “Tomorrow we proceed as planned.”
*****
The following afternoon, Dale and squire carried the barrel to the village square, where a beggar sat against the well with his cap out. Dale reached in, lifted the halibut and dropped it into the man’s hat.
“Good fortunes to you, beggar.”
The man looked into the hat. “This fish stinks.”
“Then I suggest you eat it quickly.”
The beggar poked the halibut with a grime-covered finger. “It’s got a film on it.”
Dale wiped his palms on his tunic. “That is a glaze of charity.”
Yield.
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See you soon,
—Ricky C.
The term "bum straw" made me spit out my mead !! What a fun story!
Throw out your dead, throw out your dead!